Beneath it, running from wrist to elbow, was a long web of faded, silvery scars. Real ones. Old ones. Healed, but not erased.
“I had thirty-four surgeries over five years,” he said quietly. “Skin grafts. Facial reconstruction. Orthopedic rebuilds. Months of rehabilitation, relearning how to stand, to walk, to live. And little by little, with the best doctors money could buy, I got most of my life back. Most of my face. Most of my strength.”
“Then why the wheelchair?” I whispered. “Why the… the suit?”
His eyes met mine.
“Because when I woke up from that last surgery, healthy and whole, I looked in the mirror, and I realized something terrible. I’d spent five years believing that if I only looked like my old self again, I’d feel like myself. And instead, all I could think about was Vivienne.”
I understood, suddenly, with a heavy clarity.
“The people who left you.”
“Yes. And the ones who came back when they heard I was recovering. The old friends who suddenly wanted dinners. The investors who called. The women who sent letters.” His voice hardened. “Do you know what I realized? When I was broken, nobody wanted me. And now that I was handsome and healthy again, everyone did. Which meant that none of them had ever really cared about me at all. They loved the packaging.”
He took a step closer. Then another.
“So I designed a test. A cruel one. I’ll never deny it. I created a version of myself that no one could possibly want. Grotesque. Wealthy and monstrous. And I waited.”
“For what?”
